It’s been four years since I got back. Four years of sensing, tasting, digesting what is home.
Home – birth-home – will mark 50 years of being independent this year, a reason to be proud no doubt. For asam laksa and for Titiwangsa, for pellet rainstorms and for the Kinabatangan.
But home is also the cathedral of candles you carry inside of you from the places you’ve lived and the lives you’ve met; the cultures you’ve endeared to, and ideas which enchant.
I lived in Eugene, Oregon for eight years. It is a college town nestled between the Cascade Mountains and the Pacific. It was my last stop before coming back. I had a good time there. It taught me many many things and the most precious was the beginnings of sight, of which I’m still painfully learning. It lit candles in me.
I’m sharing five with birth-home, one for every decade of this nation’s independence. In many ways, it is more a wishlist, an inspiration point, a prayer perhaps. But not a copylist; it is imperative we find our bearings with our own compass, get spooked by own shadows and shine our own light.
Candle of the Marrow
In my last year in Eugene, I lived with Peter and Lisa. Peter was my classmate in school; sparing with words he is a true gentle giant. The two met while both were working in Japan – he a builder, and she a teacher. They are white. They have three kids. Hannah, who will turn nine this year, is Caucasian-Filipino; Mason, seven, is African-American, Roscoe, five, is also African-American.
They are not seen as odd. The family networks with a bunch of others in their age-group who are similarly colour-quilted, and like a quilt beside a roaring fireplace there is much warmth and laughter.
Gary was the boss in the studio I used to work; he was like an uncle. He and his wife Iris – they are white – have three kids. Will is their biological son. Jenny is African-American. Dan was originally from Vietnam (he was one of those orphans evacuated during the fall of Saigon during the Vietnam War; captured for posterity in Life magazine).
When it comes to love, be it friend, neighbour or family, it is the marrow that really matters. Not the skin. Never the skin.
Only then can we wear what's Truly Asia.
Candle of Synapses and Sinew
By the third ring, the customer service officer answered. Pleasantries were exchanged. I’d like to open a telephone account, I told her. I gave her my address, she verified that there was a ready line, and then this: “If you could be there between 11am and 1pm tomorrow, we’ll have a technician by to set it up for you.” At the appointed time, a human being showed up, opened the switchbox and my phone line came alive. Painless.
The story is the same with about every dept in the civil service be it utilities, public transport, the police, the postal service. Work got done with minimal hassle and disruption on both parties. You didn’t fill up forms in triplicates. If there was going to be any disruption – water, power cuts etc – advance notice would be given in the mail.
They needn’t slog it it out. Civil servants put in their 9-to-5. They then go home to their families, friends and lovers. They have a life; they tend their gardens, work on their home remodel, fix their cars, read, watch a movie. They do not need a maid.
But behind every beer they chug down during pizza hours, is that quantum 9-to-5 where work gets done. Within that quantum 9-to-5 is a living, breathing system that is constantly learning, constantly improving itself. A lot of planning went into it.
This is the hallmark of societal intelligence – the ability to organize energy in the smartest possible way for mutual benefit. Logistics is the soul of an organism.
Really, you needn’t be a rocket scientist to coordinate buses on National Service pickup day. You need a system that’s built around heart. You need to be responsible, that’s all.
Candle of the Senses
Steve C is a mechanic. He doesn’t have a shop; rather he drives over and services your car by the roadside or in the garage. Thanks to him, my 82 Corona lived longer than it was supposed to. Steve is also a writer and singer-songwriter. He does open-mike sessions at the local microbrewery. He has also published his own book of poems.
Ed is a builder. He graduated from college with a degree in philosophy. “Somewhere between the unsettling greys of Derrida and Confucius, I hit a nail on the head,” he joked. Greg teaches grade school during the school year, but in the summer vacation, he joins a carpentry crew and builds houses.
There is such a thing as a lateral life.
It is amazing to see the line of cars heading towards 1-Utama on any given evening, and mind-numbing to hear conversations revolving mainly around food, sales, property or Man U. Whether one chooses pottery, gardening, weaving, book clubs, or an NGO, hobbies add that extra dimension to seeing and living. To discuss something in-depth, to peel away at superficial layers, why hell, to talk shop – that is something a society can never have enough.
That said, it is something I dearly need to imbibe more myself.
Candle of Grace
In my first days in town, fresh-face and blur, I had boarded the bus to explore the various neighborhoods. I had a seat near the exit. At a nondescript stop in the suburbs, the bus pulled over, and the hiss of hydraulics escaped. A gangplank lowered over the sidewalk and a wheelchair-bound resident got on board. Nice.
I later realised the back of buses had also been fitted with bicycle racks for those who plan on continuing their journey on two wheels in any neighbourhood. Real nice!
Positive values, the cinammon of grace, do not cost an arm and a leg. It is a matter of whether such values reside in the belly of city councillors in the first place. That is where it all begins.
The larger city size is no excuse for more difficult governance. It is in budget management. In Portland, Oregon’s largest city, all public transport rides – buses or transit – within the downtown core is free. Howzat, RapidKL?
Candle of Memory
The year I started working, I moved into a house at the East Skinner’s Butte historic district. It was one of the oldest structures in the city, built circa 1850 out of wood framing with lap siding. The simple Greek Revivial essay was built by a reverend and was initially used as a school, although it was merely 1,500 sf. Although the winters were miserably cold and drafty – there was no insulation in the walls – it was a wonderful house to live in. It creaked, squeaked and wheezed at curious places. Beside the front door is a bronze plaque signifying that the house was on the National Historic Register.
Come spring every year, there would be a weekend-long open house for the whole district. We’d have to open our doors to visitors who’d wander around from house to house peering into the rooms. The landlord, proud of their historic property, would place posters and info boards all over the living room and would proceed to narrate the story to anyone who’d care to listen.
The neighbourhood was a joy to be in with the stately Willamette River flowing by, the train station behind and downtown being five minutes walk away. In other words, the city remembers.
You can certainly tell I’m still pissed with the demolition of the Bok House, and the lack of faith and creativity, but I’ll hold my breath for now.
Five candles my dearest Malaysia, my birth-home. Five candles for this new year, for the fifty years. That more light, not darkness, shall come fill our shores. That we too may learn to see anew.
